POEM: Sean Kilpatrick

Souped-Up War

There are no gods except a gun.
Too many deities crowd one’s chamber.
Sup, motherfucker? Butchery bequeathed the sun.
Tiny horizons milk their clamor.

I held rank upside what’s whack.
I whiffed the shoe I lived inside.
It stomped us cuddling le knickknack.
That the gods wore socks I shall not confide.

Gods wore socks to smell us born.
We hunted our placentas back aroused.
I understand it’s legal to don one like a horn.
We told the frontline just bring towels.







Sean Kilpatrick lives in Detroit and is published or forthcoming in Boston
Review, New York Tyrant, BOMB, Columbia Poetry Review, Fence, evergreen
review, Sleepingfish, Hobart, and Best American Essays 2014 notable.
Anatomy Courses (2012) was co-written with Blake Butler. A novella, Sucker
June, arrives May 2015.

Submit a comment